Revealed to Him Page 2

  “Sounds interesting.” And it did. Re-creating civilizations—or effectively playing God—appealed to a lot of people.

  “Lots of people thought so too. Natalie wrote the game—not the code. She’s not a coder. She’s a writer. She was at college, majoring in English. She thought she’d be an English professor—” He waves his hand. “That’s not important. She wrote the storyline, the dialogue, all of the choices the gamer can make. It was her writing that made that fucking game. It was praised for its ‘lifelike and emotionally engaging storyline.’” He makes air quotes as if he is parroting an actual review. “It was hailed as one of the best stories in a game that year. The game developers convinced her that she should not be credited as Natalie Beck, because the gaming community is largely male and is resistant to female developers. But somewhere along the line, it became known that Natalie was female, and this set off a firestorm of controversy.”

  “People reacted badly?”

  He snorts, a rough and unhappy sound. “She couldn’t turn on her computer or pick up her phone without being inundated with the worst kind of messages—ones suggesting she kill herself and some from people who said that they were going to take the game and rape her with it.”

  “You reported these threats to the police?” I ask, but I know what the answer will be before Graham opens his mouth. He wouldn’t be here if the police were able to help them.

  “We didn’t at first. I’m not a stranger to online criticism. There are a lot of assholes who hide behind a monitor. But a sports fan is different from a computer gamer who can write programs that populate a hundred accounts a day—sending you anonymous emails and messages and tweets. Vomiting out a dozen messages of hate every second.”

  “How did Natalie take this?”

  “It was tough at first. Her feelings were hurt, but we all thought it would blow over. She’s worked with men all of her life—first living with me and having to deal with all my jackass friends and then in the gaming world. But it didn’t stop. She started having panic attacks, wondering if the guy in front of her at Starbucks was the one who wrote she should be train-raped by a pack of rabid dogs, or the one wearing the Star Wars T-shirt at the market was the one who emailed her a picture of a beheading.”

  I wince.

  “They posted her personal information online, including her address. For shits and giggles, they sent stuff to her house, like dozens of pizzas that she’d have to pay for. One asswipe called 911 on her, saying that they heard gunshots and a baby crying. It was fucking terrifying for her. They made a game out of tormenting her. Finally”—he chokes up and his head falls forward hiding what I presume to be a fuck ton of emotion—“she was attacked in the subway. He was never caught, but someone pushed her and”—he pauses and shudders—“and if it weren’t for a couple of college girls who caught her and dragged her back, she would have fallen onto the tracks and been crushed.” Graham raises his head, and by the haunted look in his eyes, the memory of his cousin’s near-death experience is still fresh. I have two sisters—it’s easier to accept danger to yourself than it is to someone you care about.

  “Three years ago she was attacked and the person was never caught,” I sum up. “You think this is the same person?” I gesture toward the letter.

  “I don’t know who it is,” he says with a lot of frustration. Graham is a big guy and has big hands, which are currently fisted and look ready to drive a hole through my desk. “The subway attack triggered a big problem for Natalie. She became housebound, because stepping outside her apartment brought on disabling panic attacks. It took her another year before she could leave her apartment and walk outside. She still can’t ride the subway, but at least she could walk around the building, go to the park across the street. Get coffee at a coffee shop. This letter,” he practically spits, “set her back. She tried to leave her apartment two days ago and got as far as the elevator before puking on herself and passing out. Thank Christ her best friend was with her or who knows how long Natalie would’ve lain like that.”

  I’ve watched Graham play football in New York, both in person and on television, for going on six years now. I’ve seen him pissed off and jubilant, but this is the first time I’ve seen him defeated. Not even during the 24–21 loss to the Green Bay Packers in the NFC Championship game when he threw two pick-sixes did he appear this upset.

  “What happens when I find this guy?”

  “You think you can find him?” His head jerks up.

  “Why did you come to me if you didn’t think I could find him?”

  “These fuckers are ghosts. They create a thousand fake accounts and come after you at the same time. You can’t ever pin them down.” He leans forward, his big Super Bowl–winning hands clutched together. “Natalie went through hell three years ago. She’s not the same person she was. Getting her out of her building was an enormous victory. This fucker has ruined it and I want him caught. Yesterday.”

  “I’ll look into it. I’ll have one of my men—”

  “No.” He holds up a hand. “This is Tanner Security and you’re Jake Tanner. I want you.”

  His tone allowed no room for disagreement. Mentally I review my current assignments. I’m busy, but making time to hunt down someone who is harassing an innocent woman isn’t hard for me to do. I give him a nod of agreement.

  “Then I need to meet Natalie.”

  He heaves a big sigh. “Yeah, that might be a problem.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  JAKE

  That might be a problem?

  I know plenty of men and women with PTSD. They don’t like crowded spaces. They don’t like loud noises. Many of them don’t like to be surrounded by a lot of people, but from what Graham is describing, this is a level of anxiety I haven’t encountered before.

  “How so? Is meeting new people a trigger?”

  “What’s not a trigger?” He sighs with resignation, seeming defeated and guilty, as if he’s frustrated by his cousin’s mental state and angry with himself for being frustrated. “That’s not entirely fair. She’s fine with people she trusts, in a controlled environment. She’s fine in my apartment, but getting there is a problem because it requires her to enter the hallway and ride the elevator—both are tasks that are very difficult for her. She’s okay with familiar people—like the doormen, although she likes the night guy better than the day guy. They can bring stuff to her door and ring the doorbell, but a food delivery person would freak her out.”

  “Not being able to get into her apartment will make it difficult for me to implement security measures.”

  “I’ll talk to her about it,” Graham promises.

  I flip my legal pad around and shove a pen toward Graham. “Write down her email address. I’ll send her a note and see how she feels about a visit.”

  Graham scrawls out her email and then pushes the pad back toward me. “I’ll text her to let her know to expect a message from you. Good luck,” he says, and his tone implies I’m going to need it.

  As soon as he leaves, I make a new file for Natalie Beck and then wait about ten minutes before shooting her an email. Most of my clients are businesses who hire us to protect a high-ranking executive overseas, or to ferret out embezzlement, or to track down the selling of trade secrets. A personal request like Graham’s is rare because of the high price tag associated with Tanner Security services. But the idea of meting out some justice to a punk who’s terrorizing a traumatized woman awakens the same sort of righteous anger that had me throwing away a banking career to join the army after 9/11.

  Me: Jake Tanner here. Your cousin Oliver Graham has asked me to look into the note. Mind if I come over and take a look around?

  Her response is nearly immediate:

  Her: Like inside my apartment? If you have spoken to Oliver, then you know I’m not comfortable with that. How do I know that you’re not the person who sent the note in the first place?

  Me: Didn’t your cousin text you? If not, here’s my website.

&n
bsp; I send her a link to the site.

  Her: There aren’t any pictures on your site. I feel like there should be pictures.

  Me: We’re into guarding people’s privacy and protecting them from danger. The fewer pictures, the safer everyone is.

  Her: I don’t know whether to be creeped out or impressed by your ready answer for every complaint I have.

  I’m a professional. Very quiet. You wouldn’t even know I’m there, I write back.

  Her: I’m already hyperventilating just emailing with you. Actually having you here would make me pass out in fear. Aren’t there special things you can do from afar with spy cameras and listening devices? I watch a lot of movies on Netflix—those things definitely exist somewhere in either Hollywood or Washington DC.

  I smile reluctantly. Her emails are funny enough to make me wonder what she’s like in person. It’s a damn shame that she’s got some asshole on her tail. Graham never did answer my question about what he is planning to do when I find the perp, but if some guy did that to my sisters, I’d find him and break his fingers.

  Me: Think about it.

  Her: Can I have a day or two to prepare?

  Me: Absolutely. Text me if you need to. I’m more responsive to my texts than emails.

  I send her my phone number. I’m a one-handed texter, but my typing isn’t much better. One of my employees has dyslexia and she prefers to send texts using emoji and pictures. I haven’t quite succumbed to that.

  I work for a few more hours, tackling paperwork that I had been avoiding for the past couple of days. Both my phone and my inbox stay unnervingly quiet. The mini fridge behind me yields a day-old ham sandwich, which I wash down with two cans of Coke. Reviewing reports, calculating payroll, and reading résumés of potential new hires fall under things I don’t enjoy doing but can’t seem to delegate to others. Around midnight, I’m close to wrapping it up when the text message alert on my phone goes off. The phone number is unfamiliar to me, but the message reveals it’s Natalie. A tenseness in my gut I hadn’t realized was there eases.

  Her: Oliver told me you were in the army. Can I ask an intrusive question?

  Me: Sure.

  I wonder if it’s about my prosthetics. Graham may not have paid attention to them, but he noticed the hand. It’s hard not to.

  Her: Were you afraid? Ever?

  Her question isn’t one that I expected, but maybe I should have. PTSD sufferers fear their response to current events and have anxiety over future ones. I suspect Natalie’s disorders aren’t much different. Fear is a big issue for her.

  Me: Yes. Frequently.

  Her: Thought army guys ate fear for breakfast. Also lunch, dinner, and for snacks in between.

  Me: Nah. We ate shitty meals from a bag heated up by a chemical triggered by water. Snacks were candy. Fear lived with us.

  Her: Shouldn’t you be sleeping? I thought you’d read this in the morning.

  Me: I’m still working. Reports. Very boring.

  Her: If I was alone in an office, I would be afraid. I’m afraid all of the time. During breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Also during snack.

  Me: Fear is a healthy thing. When you stop being afraid, you aren’t as careful and alert.

  Her: But at some point fear becomes the only thing. Then what?

  I stare at the messages, wondering what I could say. I don’t want to feed her platitudes. When I was recovering from my injuries, I felt suffocated by the pain. It took me a while to come to the place where I am now. Five years ago, I wondered why the IED hadn’t just killed me instead of taking my hand and foot. Five years ago, I was a frickin’ mess. She’s not going to get judgment from me.

  Me: Then you try to go to sleep and wake up to face the next day. And the next, until fear is the thing that keeps you sharp instead of the thing that makes you bleed.

  Her: God. I like that. I like that a lot. I’m going to bed now to prepare for tomorrow.

  Tomorrow will be a good day. I pause, my finger hovering over the screen. Text me when you wake up.

  She sends me a thumbs-up and I leave the office with a smile on my face. The long day makes my stump throb inside its vacuum-sealed socket, and since no one is around, I let my left leg drag a little as I climb the stairs to the part of the townhouse that serves as my living quarters. But I avoid the elevator that I used frequently when I first moved in because pain, like fear, is something I’ve become accustomed to. It reminds me I’m alive and that’s a good thing.

  Someday Natalie’s fear will be a good thing too.

  In my bathroom, I pull down my jeans and push the button to release the pin holding the prosthetic in place. Once I tug off the limb, the instant relief is followed by a pins-and-needles sensation. I give the stump a good massage until all that remains is a low-grade ache. The arm comes off next and instantly I feel better. With my one hand balancing me against the wall, I hobble into the bathroom for a quick shower. After drying off and making my way to the bed, I drop my cell phone on the nightstand, face up. Just in case someone needs to text me in the middle of the night.

  The number of people I’d stay awake for is small, but with wry amusement, I realize I’ve added Natalie to the list.

  I wake up a few hours later, my body having long since rejected sleeping in. A quick glance at the phone tells me that no one else is awake, or at least not needing my attention. From the closet, I grab the blade for running, strap it on over the gel liner, and quickly dress. I don’t need the arm to run, and leave that off. It’s a lot more comfortable.

  The one big benefit for an amputee with money is that I don’t have to rely on the government or insurance for my prosthetics. I get what I want and as many as I want. Whenever I visit another vet, I’m keenly aware of that particular privilege.

  Ordinarily when I run, I like to zone out, but this morning I think of Natalie, stuck inside her apartment with all her great progress shot to shit. What kind of wart on humanity intentionally messes with a woman like that? Makes me want to punch something . . . hard.

  The house is empty when I get home, which makes me wonder if I’m avoiding Sabrina or she’s avoiding me. Either way, I haven’t seen her in a couple of days. Upstairs, I shower again—a cold shower because heat makes my stump swell and then the prosthetic doesn’t fit as well. That was a hard lesson I learned early on.

  When I get out, I see a message alert. Is my heart pumping a little faster because it’s from Natalie? Nah, it’s because I just got done running, I tell myself.

  Her: I’m feeling anxious now that Oliver’s contacted you. I want to feel safe in my own home.

  Me: Who doesn’t? I have a shit ton of security in my home. Biometric sensors. Cameras. Pressure pads.

  Her: Pressure pads?

  Me: Those are weight-sensitive sensors. Anything over a certain weight triggers an alarm. We could put those on your balcony. Or radio-frequency sensors that determine the size of objects based on the interference of radio waves.

  Her: Have you already made the trip to LA? Because all of that sounds very Hollywood.

  Me: Where do you think Hollywood gets its ideas? ;)

  I stare at my phone. Fuck. A winky face, asshole?

  To regain my manhood after sending that message, I go downstairs and yell at a few employees.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  NATALIE

  “Oliver’s security guy sent me a text.” I show Daphne the message and grin.

  “Is that a winky face?” She arches an elegant eyebrow and scoffs, “Only a hipster on Molly would send that. One who wears flannel ironically because he’s never seen the woods and would never be caught dead in a cabin unless it’s in Vail and has a full-service butler on call. He probably thinks John Cusack is the epitome of manhood and aspires to have as many vinyl records as possible.” She wipes the sauce from her mouth.

  She’s here for lunch and lunch only, she told me when she arrived with bags of food from ’wichcraft. I try not to pout because I like having Daphne here all day whenever I ca
n. It’s almost like going out. Almost.

  “I think John Cusack is the epitome of manhood. Like, if that was in Jake’s Tinder profile, I’d totally swipe right.” I push my food aside because all I want to do is talk about this Jake Tanner guy. And privately I disagree with her. Only a guy with a lot of confidence sends a winky face.

  “That’s all you need to swipe right?” Daphne says in amazement. “I’d need at least one pic of his face, none of this ‘nose and lower’ shit.”

  “I’m not picky.” I shrug and pick up the phone to reread the messages. His replies are instantaneous, as if he just can’t wait to interact with me. When’s the last time that has happened? Even before I was housebound, I never had that kind of interest from males. The last guy I’d dated was more of a convenience. I’m not even sure you could call it dating, because we were working seventeen-hour days getting ready for the game launch. And then after? We had sex because he was a boy and I was a girl and we had been in close proximity with each other for two years. There wasn’t even a flame to burn out when it was over. “I’d swipe right if the guy was the Son of Sam at this point.”

  “That’s not saying much about either your taste or his appeal.”

  “True.” I stop at the message “Then you try to go to sleep and wake up to face the next day.” And the next, “until fear is the thing that keeps you sharp instead of the thing that makes you bleed.”

  He’s been where I am now because that is the only way he can write sentences like those, full of understanding and compassion. I want to keep texting him, sending nonstop messages all day to see what he’ll send me next. I don’t, though, because even someone as socially awkward as I am knows that kind of behavior would drive anyone off, even the sensitive hipster types. Plus, I need to work on my book, not write to Jake, because I’m perilously late. So late I’m concerned Daphne might develop her own anxiety disorder.